Astral Protection

We’re all living to die while we die to live
Forgetting what actually is
We just wish for bliss
Dismissive of the evidence of substance
And the shit that amazed you at thirteen
Won’t phase you when you’ve been chewed up and steamed
And reamed, by the politics of indignation
In this nation, we’re rationed into stations based on the summation
Of our monetary level, on the curve or bevel of our income
In comes the shame, bucket in the well, It’s a wonder we didn’t run
Locked up, never free, never a mason
Presenting the citizens with a false image, a successful geisha
Various illicit substances to be ingesting
Digesting, professing that we need blessing
From a higher authority, more for me, it’s spiritual
Near the mental hull of pressed individuals
Psychological bite-sized chunks that I can chew
Made for you, specially wrapped, an astral carriage
A cosmic marriage, dare I say it, he wasn’t aware that
Creative output, not monetary value, should define a man
Blight of the land, a rap reprimand
Put into his mouth and regurgitated on worthy hands
Some make little sense while making minimal cents, they’re hopeless
We watch sunsets while refusing sweat, and incur scanty spiritual debt
You can bet that it’s a chill theology, honestly it could probably
Be considered a tad lazy, but that doesn’t phase me
Cause when you’re hazy, that’s when Krishna sings
Gopala Gopala, rhythmic value, little to none
Hope a lot, that the critical outlook will favor one
Demon rapper, from the look of things
More like the demon fapper
That’s a complimentary statement to honor my masturbation
I need a relatively similar sentiment just to keep serotonin levels in check
Otherwise I might transform into an emotional wreck
Over some shit that held no water
No fodder for the farm animal inside my cranium
Brain ego spreads out like a diagram of soapy fractals
Actual factual statements are shed in favor of rhythmic hymnals
It’s dim, but still, the word holds

Six degrees of being jaded

It's almost like we're all trapped inside a scorching building
The only constant in our lives is the hurt we're feeling
A consistent ache that breeds misdealing
Bitterness clouded by a haze, without revealing
The anguish and stains we hoped to keep in
A demonic seed that pulsates and masticates
Chewing on the twisted pride and settled fates
Blatant fervor for a cause that can't be erased
Convince us that there's really nothing wrong
It's an illusion, calculated mis-choosing, we've exaggerated all along
Say those words with meaning and bring the proof
Get embroiled in the problems and avoid being aloof
Like the other ones, the figures who said they'd always be there
Figures not realizing care is constant, brought up unaware
Of the struggle, of the ever-present issues, innumerable battles
Prattle and rattle ring the fruits of labor in toiled torsos
More so to aid ourselves than the corporate electorate, or so
We were led to believe, led by the sleeve, led down a path that only ended in deceit
Have to grieve when there's nothing left, when you're the only one standing, still have to detest
Fated to be depressed, check-less, without due rest we do less
And move less, fight less against being oppressed
Honestly I'm impressed, the struggle goes without saying
That an issue could be buried for years without mention
Without contention, without due process, we put patriots in detention
And meanwhile all the targeted are too brainwashed to pay attention

Rhyme Recession (The Demon Rapper of Sweet Street)

Analysis is proof of distance
And distance brings to mind repentance
Leastways that's how I see it
And check this, I’m a repository of shame
Meaning when my friends need to spit, I form an HOV lane
A speedy-line to expression
Please don’t flow into depression
Do we need the bottles of potion
Or do we really just need some honest discussion
Age of cicadas, age of insects, age of lustful sex
Age of pride in the un-earned, misused, and empty checks
It’s a bad case of too much faith in the middle-man
His influence spans rivers too wide to understand
The image he spun’s a minor chink in the grander plan
We live off the fat of the land, off the scams of the hand
Corporate end-all, it’s the neural menthol
Your goals are unspecific, your ambition, less than prolific
Life isn’t a picnic and you’d rather be blunted during it
Phobia of the grave, call it fear of the inevitable
It’s common sense and all to fear becoming a vegetable
But death is natural, no sense in trying to stress your own
Some make stress their only post to hold
Use chemical medleys to glide through life calmly
Spend days in a haze just to magic marker the pain again
We kill each other just to stay alive
Don’t keep in mind that symmetry was designed to maintain the line
In due time, realize the dichotomy’s for the blind
But that’s us, sheep without a clue, or with an excess
So which one are you? The sightless or hopeless?
The less-blessed or the fortunate
Fortunate that either choice ends the same
The finger points inward because there’s no one left to blame
Maturity breeds responsibility breeds a response to weed
A response to the THC that blinds me from stressing
The mess that is society, so when you see me with my eyes red
Don’t count on the words that I’ve said, or the flags for which I’ve bled
It’s enough to keep your head, almost certain that I’m not dead yet
Or met my end, shit, I guess I really can’t be too sure
Spiritually too poor to put forth conjecture on life’s deeper dreaming
Eastern religions have me scheming to get buddha beaming
But when the long-hand drops, all absolutes lose their meaning
Feel me?

Wheel

The price to pay
For the sins of today
Another laid-back hell
A trip down the well of shame
A lennon lesson and I just can’t let it be
Languid preachers and creatures deem the feature
Misplaced needles will swindle you to beat her
And I’d find it fine
If it’d deign some peace of mind
But I still haven’t found it, even after all this time
In the bongs and bottles of beer
Through the shame and leavened tears
I’d like to say I’ve been wizened by the years
Instead I’m crushed up, rourked down
A wrestler without the scars
I’d fly far but I’m bogged down by emotional tar
Triceratops of fate, what’s the message of today?
The price you chose to pay
Came two minutes too late
Honestly it’s dizzying
That a simple thing
Will throw you in the ringer
Just like sandler in the singer
We’re all looking for a drew
And if you stroke my ego right
I’ll give the prize to you
But in the dead of night
Brain bloated full of blight
Ask yourself, was it worth it?
To give your freedom up as profit?
To be a prophet for the market?
Mark my words, don’t consider to attempt it
Unless you have a propensity for harboring contempt
Qualitatively, I’ll put it simply, I’m done
Quantitatively, I’m solo, just one
Been taking hits to up my productivity
To be honest, it’s only deepened my declivity
Tried to open my lips to halt the span of brevity
Rejected constantly, confidence from head to knee
Before I knew it, I was smoking trees just to flee the scene
Punched back for the very first time
Spit out a rhyme to decide my worth
And what’s worse is I didn’t even dent the purse
Didn’t shake the bank
Or even shake the lake of stability
Couldn’t change a thing when the world needed me
Consequentially, I’m the only one paying the fee
Bob barker on the throne and I’m stumbling downwards
A nightmare in dream’s clothes, thought I finally found her
Phoenix in the stomach, purity in the core
Come Zain, come join us, come claim your reward
It’s twisted, I mixed it, the mental chex-mix of hooligans
A street-sent mendicant, here to serve a purpose
Like marina to a porpoise, but I’m vehement, nickatina
I’m bleeding for you, seen ‘em?
The machine’s wound up for personal use
Your turn to choose, bent-up or abstruse
In fact I’ll lend you the noose
Just off yourself, flora, we’ll use your neurons as juice

Uninspired

My main struggle at the moment is the urge to vomit
That the water in the bottle is caustic poison
Or that I’m surrounded by more plastic than Wallace and Gromit
Maybe it’s that my cerebral cortex is poised in
A position that promotes mental dereliction
My cerebellum is stuck in stick-shift
I missed it, tried to fix it, rhymed it
With it, and forgot that doesn’t constitute wit
And all around the world it’s the same song
So I guess you should comprehend why I hit this bong
Like it’s an unwanted child, why I pull an Oscar Wilde
Gazing at the stars from a gutter of my filth
The proximity to marijuana seeds had me feeling
Like there wasn’t more to life than inhaling green
Every breath I took, came with a sting
Turn the radio on, hear the police
Not the kind to make a THC blood-stream freeze
But the ones to put a clouded mind at ease
The fridge brilliance portrays an Oliver Twist
Begging me, can I have another
And hey man, you kinda look like your brother
But If everyone in the world is a brother, then see
There’s plenty of fish in the sea that look a lot like me
Wouldn’t be a moral dilemma if I wasn’t a fiend
Soul of Fidel-sized revolutionaries at the age of seventeen
Some people dream and scheme to sit up on the block and lean
That’s not for me, I’m feeling grander
Haven’t mentally shampooed for days, I’m feeling dander
And I’m not Drake, won’t read off of a blackberry
Only reason is because my Mac’s too large to carry
Brush the dust off, I’m back on the saddle
But I’m still hiding in my shell in fear of battle
Liver’s poisoned from a bath-tub of cheap swill
Realistically, at the moment, I’m dazed
There’s a plume of smoke, and my mental crops are razed
Metaphorical way to say he got blazed
I’ll keep the tongue stoic, the verbal blade staid
This life was made for me, I have it extremely well
I live comfortably, without intent to sell
So why make poetry, without the inner demons
Because the skeleton’s there, result of cursed semen
Anger in suburbia, label me vehement
Not at opportunities lost, they’re all around me
But because some don’t respect the chillosophy
Disappointment like a plate of wet bologna
Curtains close and the dream fades slowly

Collegeboard

I have this disorder called empathy
At least recently that’s what it’s appeared to be
To me, and to others, a caustic disease
A personality sickness that has me on my knees
All the shame without the buzz
Less attractive than a jar of navel fuzz
Bitterness melts away because
I’m bumping to slug, god loves ugly
Well if there is one, he must not know me
The stinginess comes through in my lyricality
That’s not even a word, evidence of my apathetic mentality
And no, I haven’t been to battles, see
I’m what the dogs bark at, call me a pussy
I’d rather sit here and spit than start shit with nitwits
But maybe that’s because there are no nitwits to start with
Not necessarily that I’m alone, but the population of supporters has been hard-hit
Spent more time gazing at tits than making dreams come to fruition
If the streets are covered in sperm, call this the road to omission
Is that a biblical vision?
No, it’s just fiction
Surrounded by juice, call me the peach pit
But wait shit, I’m just a chubby white kid
In fact, I need to adjust my damaged eyelids
Or at least where my gaze sits
Because my dreams and the reality honestly don’t fit
And that’s the hardship I have to deal with
Not starving in the projects or in the barrio selling bean-dip
The gravity strikes the back of your throat just like cool-whip
Consider that the last of my food quips
At least in this post, too many consonants
If the world is Isengard, I’m an invading Ent
Or Treant, miscreant, feel free to express
Digress, whatever makes you feel less hopeless
Some spend checks on over-priced clothes to dress
Up their fears, at the bottom of the beer
Swallow the dregs just to make sure you don’t see clearly
With clarity comes reality, and with the truth comes brevity
With abruptness comes readiness to blow your brains into the carpet
This life, I tried to harm it, more hollow in the chest than Kermit
I’m just a puppet, I’ve had enough bliss
I’d offer you my ass, but there’s already a hand implanted

When you put it like that, sure.

After a while, the boogeyman disappears
Leans over and whispers crookedly in your ear
I’ll be back in a couple of years
An amalgamation of all your financial fears
It’ll make you realize that even though you don’t check under the bed
You’ll still feel the urge to put a bullet in your head
Well isn’t that a kick, ruminate like Dean Martin
Peering over the edge, finally starting
To realize the benefit of being passionate
Went from stashing dreams to stashing shit
When the brownies finally dissolve, you begin to believe
Sometimes, all we need is the drugs in the sleeve
Or to grin without teeth, emotion without the meat
Label it revenge, call it karma, what have you
But before you lay down judgement understand what I’d do
To repent, to bring an end to the shame
Maybe that’s my motive behind playing these games
Or maybe it’s because to me they’re mental foreplay
Pixelated stimulation of the day
Blurring the lines, it’s the creative incarnation of the color gray
Rhymed gray with day, I couldn’t pass K-12 another way
So I’m here to stay, atop a cacophonous suburban symphony
Symphony pronounced “ay”, but only to fit my rhyme scheme, okay?
Without further delay, examining social interaction
It’s funny how we feel the compulsion to split into factions
Or the urge to scrutinize where the innocence went
Call it introspective ignorance, or hyper-self-conscious bliss
But I don’t have a magnanimous sense of when to spit
No internal alarm telling me the path is writ
I guess it isn’t, is it?

Call me Ken. Or Ben. Actually, just call me Zain.

I'm rounding up, just call this the bell-curve
Get slapped back just to make sure you struck a nerve
The issue's a squirrel in the road, make sure to swerve
When really, you just need a chance to escape her
He's saying "ya just expand that universe"
My thoughts are terse and I need to lyrically doodle first
That's all that this is, it's merely practice
You can call me M.O.S. if the shoe fits
Or rather I guess if the gold-tooth fits
Can't make rap a career so I'll just use this
To boost the linguistic, call us stylistic
Misfits, square pegs in a round world
Let loose a thread and the whole system comes unfurled
But that's not to say that I've lived on the streets
Upper middle-class and my upbringing was meek
Never seen gang-violence, and I won't fake it
Hear that auto-tuned liar and I just can't take it
Won't show up to jams, and my theory is he's frightened
Scared at the chance that he might end
Up realizing he's white-trash, he's the rash
That as creators we have to face
Need to burn the M.O.S's, the Fonzworths, and the fakes
And that's not a formality, I mean literally sear them
We can be the street-poets on a mountain of roasted men
Picture this, all it takes is a passionate pen

I'll have the enema!

Now it’s personal

My mental purse is full

And I’m cursing at the thought

Of being left behind with my head

Firmly implanted in the sand

I’ll dodge the reprimand and strike back with a gilded hand

Not like the gilded age, this situation is real

It wasn’t written for stage-play

New impulses I feel

It’s like a reel of the past 10 years

It isn’t deceased, the tiger’s still there

I didn’t lay it bare, I wasn’t aware

It was needed, until about an hour ago

The show was over and the curtain finally closed

It was funny, because when I was actually alone

The introspection made me feel horrendously exposed

So I dug in the shell, ripped the turtle’s head out

Again I remember what this soulful shit was about

This time around he’s not going back in

Finally understand that would be borderline sin

Can’t be blind to the blunt aspiration

Not blunt inspiration, not taking hits to stay mentally fit

Clawed out of the pit, and it’d take at least twenty men to get me back in

That’s all I have to say about the matter

And don’t fret, I won’t pull a Marshall Mathers

Won’t blab about being back until your head hurts

To anyone that stayed loyal to me

Welcome back to Multicultural Colonoscopy

This one's for you

You are a triumph of natural selection. Beyond the petty nonsense, the neoclassical ranting, the existentialist, hopeless, histrionic moaning, you are composed of millions of molecules that have spent eons waging mankind’s most magnificent war: the fight to adapt. Soul or not, heart or shame, we are fighters. The only humans who will ever concede or wail into a cobbled corner have been conditioned to give up, and in releasing that last, shimmering glimmer of opportunity, they have become empty casks. A man without fight, timbre, or to put it simply, spirit, has sold their humanity for temporary protection from a government stationed around a hub of profit and seedy misconduct.

You have been staring down death since day one. It’s undeniable. You could’ve been strangled at birth, victim to an unruly umbilical cord. You could’ve died in the crib. You could’ve been hit by an innumerable amount of bullshit, the kind of nonsense that anyone can be whipped by at any given moment. You could’ve, but you didn’t. And just that phrase, that simple act of surviving in a world that is fueled by the dust of deceased game, makes you better. You are the cutting edge.

Your story has been one of bloodshed and depression, but you made it. From the times before recorded history, to the first agricultural settlements, spanning from the inner-Tigris, to the Nile, to North America, you have found the tools to survive, and clutching them against the very Nature that takes and gives life at any uncaring whim, you stand victorious. Don’t ever sell yourself short, for you are descendant of the civilizations that brought fire to the canals of tyranny, that banished incubus and succubi and instead placed reason and science as the cornerstone of sophistication, and who cleaved the heads of those who would dare concede, who hanged the unruly, and who enjoyed the spoils of humanity; of living. You are the branch of a tree whose roots go back to Byzantium, Rome, Carthage, and the beginnings of Democracy. You are man.

Cassius Clay

Dance around the question like Muhammad Ali

Eyes bathed in red like I worship chlorine

Hurtling down from space, off a gram of that green

Off the edge, shows a man what lost hope really means

He deigns it deemed

Can’t understand my perspective

Just call me HAL

And I’ll skew the directive

Protective?

Yes, he blessed it

A prophet to the people but he

Forgot the message

Stonehenge in the suburbs

Form a line

You’ll find that their kind

Will do anything for a dime

Plummeting forward at 2 am

I’m stuck without an intro, where to begin

I’d like to say I’m in the studio slayin’

But I’m not Gohan, that’s not what I’m sayin’

Invectives infest my brain, prime objective to derange him

Well, it’s working, that I can confirm

Empty phone at my side, I’m in a puddle of my sperm

This isn’t PBS, there were no lessons learned

No educational prime-rib for the pulsing neurons

R-Complex is the main culprit of what went wrong

The dendrites don’t spark right and tonight

I just might end it, on second thought

I might just recharge

Don’t be alarmed at this sudden change of heart

The need to restart

I’m begging for a clean start

A wiped slate, a new beginning

I’m way past my game, call this the 23rd inning

Fruit in the tree, so I’m stuck her sinning

Like a prostitute tailor, you were fucked in the fitting

I’m a rotten peach, in the field, I was plucked for the pitting

And winning

Is nothing more to me

It’s getting easy to see

I just want to be

The ballad of semi-serious sammy

These fuckin’ walls must be talking cause I can hear em

Got me thinking for a second I’m sobbing too close near em

Stole that line from Eminem, but fuck it, I’m done

My lips are sealed and my hand’s shaking with the gun

And that’s proverbial anyway, I can’t even afford one

Can’t choke down the pill bottle, too oblong

If at all possible, I won’t be here for too long

Gambino in the back, sketching my spirit

Envisioning brains on the walls, last chance to spit it

Let me list off the things that led to this

A lack of women, a lack of friendship, and a general lack of tits

But that’s sort’ve a joke, I haven’t gotten a poke

In a while, but it’s not my style to grieve over a woman

Pouring my soul out for basic fulfillment

No tears for the stone-faced harpies that don’t care

Ambulance siren and they aren’t there

Only need you when the time is right

No, not now, you just won’t suffice

You’ve got your hand in my heart and you pluck out my soul first

Fake gun trembling, aimed between my shoulders

This isn’t a cop, this time I’m not clownin’

My sense of self-esteem is an orphan, and it’s lost drownin’

Abandoned in the sewer, it’s where we found him

Well damn, it’s like nothing was ever achieved

If I could believe, then I wouldn’t need this bottle of dusty aleve

Last thing to say is fuck it, brush it off, remember they need you

Idiocy 202

Right about now, I feel more useless than BP. That’s an honest statement. I can’t recall something productive that I’ve done in the past month. It makes me wonder if adult-onset dyslexia is actually possible, or if my brain is being infested with THC. That’s the active chemical in marijuana plants, but you probably knew that. In fact, you probably smoke all the time. Get a hold on your life. I’m projecting my insecurities on you, because it’s more simple that way. You can be my tabula rasa. I’m hoping to whatever malicious deity is out there that this is just a phase, that one day I’ll feel like me again, that maybe the self-righteous tragedy will end. The shitty flow, whatever remnant of rhythmic ability I once had, I just want it back. I want to turn back the clock about 16 years and be fully cognizant. I would definitely live my life again just to tweak a few things. And it trails on and on.